


X Marks the Spot

by Heza



Series: Red vs Blue Drabbles [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, M/M, Self Harm, descriptions of vomiting, lolix if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22811890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heza/pseuds/Heza
Summary: As Sam kneeled before porcelain, he wished for nothing more than to throw up.
Series: Red vs Blue Drabbles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1417789
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	X Marks the Spot

**Author's Note:**

> When Miles dropped the juicy Locus headcanon about cutting his face after a particularly bad battle, I had an idea for a drabble almost instantly. The subject of self harm is never an easy one, and I’m writing Locus’s feelings with it in a way that mirrors my own, complicated relationship with self harm. This won’t be everyone’s experience, it can’t be after all, but I hope I convey it well enough all the same.

Samuel Ortez hated throwing up. No one did but he had a particular distaste for it. In his youth, he had worn his hair long, and sometimes wasn’t fast enough to pull it out of the way. He hated the way his whole body would seize in anxiety, that brief moment where the world seemed to _catch,_ and bile would sear his throat and nose. He hated how he could taste it on his tongue no matter how much water he tried to guzzle down.

He _hated_ it.

But as Sam kneeled before porcelain, he wished for nothing more than to _throw up_.

As awful as it was, he’d usually begin to feel better. He could stand up, brush his teeth, and rest somewhere more comfortable. As it were, he seemed to be _stuck_ in that moment right before actually being sick and had been since returning to base. The sights, smells, and sounds of the previous battle hadn’t left him yet, from the mangled bodies on both sides, the gore and the mud, to the Commanding Officer screaming at him for hesitating to kill.

Sam spat out the saliva pooling in his mouth and pushed himself to his feet. If he wasn’t going to be sick yet he needed a drink. He staggered over to the sick, catching and holding himself steady by clutching the edges. The water was cool on his fingertips, and as he cupped his hands and brought the water to his mouth, he realized he was trembling. The water did little to sooth the nausea in his stomach. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Sam caught sight of himself in the mirror. His dark skin was ashen, and sweat dripped from his brow. There were dark, deep shadows under his eyes from poor sleep, and there was a lack of shine to his eyes. 

He looked awful.

He looked… _scared_. 

This was not the face of a soldier who followed orders.

He felt is nausea, his _disgust_ , spike and Sam thought this would be the moment he’d finally be sick and this would be over. But it wasn’t. That anxious energy grew and grew and grew, trapped inside him with no where to go. 

He wasn’t quite sure how the knife found itself in his hand. He just knew he _needed_ to get the energy _out_. To release the anxiety and the fear and everything else that made him broken. Made him weak. Everything that kept him from being the perfect soldier.

One line, bright and red diagonally across his nose, then a second. An X, like the one on his helmet. At the end of basic training, he had joked with his bunkmate that, “x marks the spot!” The two of them had laughed, then.

Sam couldn’t remember their face. They had been killed in their first battle.

He let out a shaky breath of air through his nose as blood dropped down his face and splattered against the sink below, stark against the white porcelain. That feeling of nausea and unease as stilled somewhat, and time felt real again. It stung, especially where salty sweat dripped down into the cuts, but it was better than being trapped at that point over being overwhelmed. 

The door creaked open. “You in here Ortez? Lash needs us all in— _Jesus fucking Christ!”_

Sam turned his head towards the door. Someone was standing there, mouth hanging open in shock, but Sam couldn’t recognize them. The blood dripping into his eyes made it difficult to see.

The figure, a man, took a step back. “Are you _insane_?!”

Sam frowned. “No,” he gravelled. His sounded strange, like he was listening to a recording of himself, distant and tinny.

The man glanced over his shoulder, licking his lips and fidgeting with his hands, before looking back to Sam. “Shit, come here.” He grabbed Sam by the wrist, and Sam let go of the knife. It fell into the sink with a clatter.

Sam was pulled from the washroom into the cramped sleeping quarters he share with his roommate. With a steady pressure, the man pushed him down onto Sam’s bed. “Stay here,” he said roughly before leaving for the washroom. Sam looked down, watching the blood _drip drip drip_ onto his knuckles.

There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and Sam looked up to see the man plop himself in it, a wet cloth in his hand. Grumbling, he began to press it none to gently against Sam’s face, wiping the blood clean. The water was cold, and stung. 

“The _one_ time I don’t put my things away, you just _have_ to go _fucking nuts_ and carve up _your own fucking face_ …”

Sam blinked as he finally realized who was dressing his wounds. “… Gates?”

Bright blue eyes snapped up to his, clearly irritated  _distressed?_ as he snapped, “yeah?”

Guilt crashed into Sam like a massive wave. He and Gates rarely saw eye to eye, if ever, but that didn’t mean he wished to distress his roommate. His eyes dropped back down to his hands. “I did not realize the knife was yours,” he said in way of apology.

Gates snorted unsympathetically. “Would it have stopped you if you did?”

Sam legitimately didn’t know how to respond, so he didn’t. He still couldn’t remember how exactly the knife ended up in his hand to begin with.

Gates shook his head and continued to grumble and swear under his breath as he wiped blood off Sam’s face. Sam kept quiet, brows furrowed. He had found no companionship in Gates, and Gates had made it clear _multiple_ times that there was no love between them. So this display of, if not gentle, care confused and worried him.

“Why are you doing this?”

Gates’ hand slipped, the cloth nearly falling from his fingers. “I—“

“What the **hell** is going on here?!”

Gates whipped his head towards the figure in the doorway, but Sam merely looked over slowly, uncaring. Looks like Commanding Officer Lash had come looking for them.

—

Sam stared down into the duffle bag open on his bed that he was supposed to pack all his belongings and entire life into, resisting the urge to pick at the stitches on his face. Granted there wasn’t much, but the task still seemed dauntless.

After a visit to the medic and a _lengthy_ meeting with a counsellor, Sam had been declared “unfit” for service. In American influenced branches of the UNSC, it was called an “honourable” discharge. Well an honourable discharge wasn’t going to feed him or put a roof over his head. It wouldn’t help him connect to distance family and acquaintances worlds away. It wouldn’t help him sleep any better. It wasn’t going to stop the hurt or fear.

Being a _soldier_ might have helped him deal with all of that. 

And they took that away from him.

The door slammed open, and Sam turned to see Gates storm inside, tossing a duffle bag of his own on his bed. Gates took one look at Sam’s and barked a humourless laugh. “So they’re throwing you out too, huh?”

Sam’s brow furrowed and his mouth tugged down into a frown. “You were discharged as well?”

“Well since it was _my_ knife you decided to mutilate yourself with,” Gates nearly spat as he began to haphazardly shove his belongings into his bag, “they decided I’m equally at fault for your little break down.”

Sam’s frown deepened, shame bubbling up in his gut. His actions had further consequences than just himself. He would not allow such a loss of control to happen again. He turned back to his bag, but as he began to pack, from the corner of his eye he saw Gates gently lob his combat knife into his duffle. “We are supposed to return all our equipment,” he commented casually.

“Like hell!” Gates began to rifle through his drawers. “I bled for this _assholes_ for _years_ and now they’re just going to throw me away like garbage? Fuck that.” Gates bared his teeth in a snarl. “S’far as I’m concerned, I’ve earned myself a few souvenirs. I don’t owe them anything. Neither do you.”

Sam paused, a half folded shirt in his hands.

Gates continued to rant. “I mean, Christ, they act like they’re doing us a _favour_ by dropping us off at the nearest city centre, but do _you_ have any prospects over there?”

Sam pursed his lips together. He did not.

“By the look on your face,” Gates sneered, “I’m guessing no. What skills do you have, huh? You really think some low paying, part time job is going to have an opening for a sniper?”

Sam briefly considered the prospect of job hunting and felt himself recoil from the thought. Job hunting wasn’t any fun when he was fifteen and the idea of doing it now wasn’t any better.

Gates tossed the pieces of his handgun into his bag, not at all caring for proper gun storage and safety. “Well whatever. _I_ know what _I’m_ good at, and I know there’s _plenty_ of rich folk out there willing to pay a little extra to get the job done.”

Sam raised a brow. “Mercenary work?”

Gates nodded. “And if you were smart, which I realize is up for debate considering you just carved your own face like a pumpkin, you’ll come with me.”

His second brow shot up to join the first and he turned to face Gates in confusion. He didn’t say anything. Just stared.

Gates ran a hand through his hair and down his neck. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not an idiot. You might be the most insufferable prick I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting, but there was more than one time, if you hadn’t been the hell of a shot you are, I’d be dead.” He glanced over at Sam, eyes landing not on his wound but locking onto his eyes. “I also know that if _I_ hadn’t been around, the same would be true for you.”

Once again, Sam had to fight the impulse to scratch and pull at his stitching. It was a fair assessment. For all their disagreements, arguments, and flat out fighting, the two of them fought remarkably well together.

“Look,” Gates continued, “I’m just saying, we make a pretty good team. Why stop a good thing? Why not continue it?” He crossed over to Sam, hand held out. “What do you say? Partners?”

Sam looked down at the hand being offered to him, frowning still as he considered it. Did he have any other choice? 

Even if he did, the thought of just quietly vanishing into civilian life…. upset him.

He grasped Gates hand.

“Partners.”

**Author's Note:**

> In my brain, Felix heard that Locus was being discharged and actually left of his own volition because, as he said, he knew that Locus had been keeping him alive during the war thus far. I imagine this information comes out later down the road, long after Locus would have been upset to learn that.  
> For anyone also reading Curiosity, the “partners” here is supposed to be parallel to the one happening between Maranta and Tucker. I like to think it’s even happening around the same time. c:
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read this! Remember, if you struggle with mental health and self harm, there are any ways to get support. You’re not alone.


End file.
